


The Confession

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Humans, Androids, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: tavern_tales, Dubious Computer Science, Ethics, Homophobic Language, Humans, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mental Anguish, Near Future, Priests, Reincarnation, Roman Catholicism, Synths, interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Arthur opens his eyes and automatically turns his head, searching for a glimpse of the shore. Then he remembers that he's not in the boat, that there is no boat, not here. That he's not supposed to remember his dreams. Not supposed to dream at all.</i>
</p>
<p>(AKA a <i>Humans</i>-style synth AU, a priest AU, and an Arthurian reincarnation AU walked into a bar...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Sleep Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tavern Tales 2015 July Theme: [Demons, Zombies, & Synths.](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/14246.html)
> 
> Not quite sure how to warn for this one as it involves synths (a la _Humans_ ) + Catholic religious themes; it may be blasphemous for some in this regard, as well as striking dub-con/non-con-ish notes when it comes to perceptions of synths' self-determination and participation in sexual acts. This isn't a strict fusion in terms of specific characters, but it draws heavily from the _Humans_ universe, with added dashes of the 2013 Polish drama _W imię... (In the Name Of...)_ and various Irish and British sitcoms about priests/vicars in rural communities.

_**Prologue: Sleep Wake**_

Arthur opens his eyes and automatically turns his head, searching for a glimpse of the shore. Then he remembers that he's not in the boat, that there is no boat, not here. That he's not supposed to remember his dreams. Not supposed to dream at all.

File locked and compressed, he ascertains that the subtle rocking motion is that of the train slowing down as it approaches a station. He's flat on his back, zipped into Corporation overwrap and strapped to a pallet stashed on some sort of shelf. The material directly over his face is textured, nearly opaque, but if he tilts his head just so, he can see out a clear panel in the side. There is nothing much to see though, just bulky shapes in the dark. 

He wonders if his design is under special patent, if he's meant as a surprise for someone – or if it's just that the human workers don't like having to look at his face.

He feigns sleep mode as he's offloaded, listens to a brief debate over whether to stack him in the goods yard or bring him into the station. Eventually he's put on an upright dolly and propped against a vending machine outside the old stationmaster's office. Not knowing how long he'll be here, nor when he'll next be near a charging port, he sets his auto-wake function for hour intervals and powers down.

The next time he wakes he is in a lorry, surrounded by stacked pallets of pavers and ornamental stone and crates of live ducks. There is daylight and fresh air coming in through a series of window vents; again, by turning and angling his head he can see out. At first it's a blur of scrubby green hills and pale sky, but after the lorry swings round a sharp bend Arthur sees nothing but dazzling blue.

He inhales deeply, letting his olfactory sensors confirm what he already knows: He is near the sea, the vast western one that leads to the new lands. 

He allows himself a smile before powering down, thinking about the man in his dreams, the one who's always waiting on the shore. His eyes are the same dazzling, ever-changing blue. 

Arthur's more certain than he's ever been that he is on the right path.

| o | o | o |


	2. In the Beginning

_**In the Beginning** _

Merlin's thinking about his dinner. He knows he shouldn't be, but it's been a slow day for confessions. Most of the village is away off to the festival in Padstow. The scatter of remaining parishioners – elderly, loners, diehards – are familiar, as are their sins. He knows them before they speak by their sounds, their smells. The clacking of heels or scuff of a heavy boot; the tap and creak of a cane; a persistent wheeze or cough; the various scents of their daily lives so worn into their garments and skin that it will never wash completely away. Sheep shit. Chip grease. Too many cats. Brine and petrol. Mothballs, lavender, lemon cleanser. Cavendish tobacco.

The same smells and the same petty sins, over and over, with long stretches of nothing in between. Sitting on the hard seat with bowed head and hands folded in his lap, lulled by the susurrus of the penitents' prayers.

It warms his heart thinking how good these people are – and how frustrating too. Aloud, he gives them absolution. Privately he wonders if they'll ever change. If they even want to, or would be willing to try. 

There are moments when the old fiery impatience stirs – the urge to show them, to _make_ them see the error of their ways – but he tamps it down, pressing one tingling palm to his forehead and the other against his surplice. He may still be young in the eyes of his parishioners, but his soul feels ancient. 

His own sins feel ancient, irrelevant. He is looking forward to his dinner. Rabbit pie, he's been promised. Rabbit pie, fresh spring peas and garlicky potatoes. Some sort of cake as well, if his nose hadn't deceived him this morning. 

(Later, he will remember that these were his exact thoughts as the little red light pulses to life once more, indicating a newly-arrived penitent. He will remember due to the irony of it – that the newcomer surprises him by having no sound, no scent at all. That his nose had, in that moment, very much deceived him by not scenting the utter disaster, the exquisite wonder of it all.)

| o | o | o |

"Welcome, my friend, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Merlin's not quite certain why he uses this term of address, other than that odds are it's a pensioner and, ordained or no, he feels presumptuous calling them "my child."

As he completes the sign of the cross, there is a faint sound from the other side of the screen, the creaking of the ancient vinyl that pads the kneeler. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." A male voice. Posh, English, but bright and even, youthful, no hint of snobbery or city impatience. "It has been…null return…apologies, Father…it would appear that…searching…yes, confirmed…this is my first confession."

Merlin jolts upright in his chair, whipping his hand down from his face and peering through the latticework. Fair hair, eyes a luminous green. "You! You're a… Who _are_ you?"

"Apologies, Father. My name is Arthur Prideaux. My primary user is Aredian Prideaux of – "

"Prideaux! Where is he? Is he here?" Merlin whispers urgently. "Did he put you up to this?"

"I don’t understand the final question, Father, but my primary user is not here. He is in Padstow for the day. Will you hear my confession now?"

Merlin takes a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists, ignoring his racing heart. He considers his options. He's had no instruction on this from the Church, no need of it, as for all the debate over synth ethics and the likely impact on parishioners, the Corporation had been very clear about the programming and _this_ – this scenario right here, in his confessional – shouldn’t be happening. Is, in fact, theoretically impossible.

"Father, do you require medical assistance? My sensors indicate that you are in some distress."

"No! I'm fine, I… Look, my – " Merlin breaks off, hung up on the awareness of his own sweat and elevated heart rate, of the synth's awareness of these things, too, of the fact that he is neither "my friend" nor "my child" nor any part of Merlin's flock. And yet…

Merlin places his hand on the screen, takes another deep breath, attempting to calm himself. "Arthur." His tongue curls round the name too easily, likes it too well. "That is a fine name. It suits you, I think."

"Does it?" Those uncanny eyes meet his, widening, saved from looking utterly inhuman by thick, sleepy folds of eyelid and a lush fringe of lashes. From what little Merlin can see of him, Arthur is stunning, truly beautiful in that artless way only youthful skin and good bone structure can achieve. 

He has to remind himself that there's no skin and bones involved, that none of this is real. "Yes," he says, tongue heavy in his mouth. He's in no way prepared for the brilliance, the broad innocence of Arthur's smile.

"Thank you, Father. My primary user did not care to give me a Christian name, so I reverted to one assigned in a previous setup file."

Merlin doesn't know what to do with this information, doesn’t want to examine it too closely in light of all the other irregularities. Doesn’t think the sanctity of the confessional would count for much in the face of the Special Technologies Task Force.

"Look, Arthur, you shouldn’t be here," he says, as gently as he's able. "The Sacrament of Reconciliation, like all our sacraments, is a sign of God's grace, a source of divine life to those of us born in sin and baptised in the faith. You… You have no sin. You _cannot,_ for you were not born, but built. Programmed to be of service to humanity. Do you understand?"

Arthur's eyes blaze with a queer light. Then he closes them, and Merlin slumps back in his seat. There is a long pause, during which Merlin becomes aware that there are no other sounds left other than his own breathing, that the other penitents have gone.

Arthur's response, when it comes is startling. Merlin knows there can be no variation in a synth's voice, yet to his ear Arthur now sounds as nervous – yet stubborn – as any of the other parishioners.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I am new to these parts and have only recently acquired the data files on your faith. This is my first confession. I have harboured resentment against my primary user on…numerous occasions. I have intentionally damaged his property and worked to undermine his authority, siding with those of my secondary users whom I like best."

Merlin makes fists of his hands, squeezes until he can feel his nails bite into his palms. What's happening here is impossible. "I appreciate your interest in our faith, Arthur, but you must understand, I can't… It’s not within my power to – " But, possible or no, the dam has evidently been breached; Arthur continues, speaking over him. 

"On four occasion's I've stolen foodstuffs, currency and material goods from my primary user's household in order to aid those less fortunate on his estate, and since my eighteen-plus options were unlocked seventeen days ago I have engaged in – "

"Stop!" Merlin cuts in. He doesn’t recognise his own voice. "Stop, please, you mustn't. Whoever put you up to this, whatever you've been told, I guarantee it's not necessary, nor worth the risk – neither to you nor Prideaux."

" – numerous acts of self-gratification," Arthur goes on, as if he hasn't heard, "and fornication without generative purpose. I have used pornography on nine occasions, and routinely entertained impure thoughts about a man other than my primary user. For these and all of my sins I am truly sorry."

"Oh God," Merlin whispers. They can't lie. They _cannot_ lie. It's part of their programming; he's sure he heard that, read that somewhere. Which means…

"Father?"

"Shit, sorry, I – " Merlin claps a hand over his mouth, closes his eyes, prays for strength and guidance. The heat in his body – the fine trembling, the awareness of where his bare skin's weighed down, held in place by all the layers of cloth – should shame him, but instead he just feels awkward, exposed for all he is hidden. Four parishes in the last three years, increasingly more remote, and yet it seems he cannot outrun his own nature.

If it's a trap it's a brazen one. Disturbing and cruel, as well as puzzling – as far as he knows he's made no enemies here, aroused no suspicions, and the mood in the parish seems generally tolerant so long as no one's cheating on a spouse or kicking up a fuss in the street. But if it's neither a trap nor a joke, if the thing's got a loose wire or something, if it actually believes itself to be human, capable of sin, and Prideaux's been using it for sex…

Merlin clears his throat, attempts to sound wise, paternal. "Arthur, I cannot give you what you seek, not here. Officially, I cannot absolve sin where there is none in the eyes of the Church. Do you understand?" 

"No, Father, but I will attempt to." He sounds distinctly hurt, upset in that brusque way men have when they are lost and feel their pride's been offended – another impossibility which only reinforces Merlin's panic. Either he's cracking up or there is something very wrong going on here.

Merlin opens his eyes, takes a steadying breath. "But what you’ve said concerns me." He dares another look through the screen, another glimpse of those green, glassy-looking eyes. "If you were to seek my advice as a man, only, as a… well, a friend, of a sort, I would attempt to council you as best I can."

This smile is worse than the previous one because it's all there in his eyes, a subtle warmth and amusement, an intense, joyful shine the likes of which he's never seen in any of the Corporation's adverts.

"Thank you, Father. I would like you for a friend. I would like that very much. How shall we proceed?"

Before he can second-guess the decision, Merlin gives Arthur directions to the rectory's kitchen door, promising to meet him there as soon as he's able. 

Arthur leaves as silently, as scent-lessly as he'd come. Merlin almost manages to convince himself that he's imagined the whole encounter in a fit of fasting-induced delusion, but when he goes to empty the poor box he finds, among the handful of notes and old pound coins, a limpet shell and a Prideaux Enterprises-branded bitcoin voucher for five hundred euro.

| o | o | o |


	3. There Was Evening, and There Was Morning

_**There Was Evening, and There Was Morning** _

Arthur is waiting, not at the kitchen door, but in the parlour. Merlin doesn't know who let him in, as old Finna was meant to be off to the festival herself by now; the alternative, that the synth had let himself in, is disturbing enough, but nowhere as disturbing as the fact that he has shed his Corporation scrubs – neatly folded on the settee – and is standing naked beside the window, staring out.

No, not naked, Merlin reminds himself as Arthur's head swivels smoothly towards him, but stripped down. Base factory settings, as Corporation intended. His genital module, however, is not the low, sexless mound of a carer unit or average home-use synth but that of an adult male at rest. Merlin notes, without meaning to, that it's incredibly detailed – lifelike save for the uniform synth-skin colour and complete lack of hair.

"Hello again, Father."

Merlin jerks his gaze upward, skin suddenly feeling too warm, too tight. "Merlin," he says firmly, reaching back to claw at his collar button. "Please, call me Merlin." He wishes he'd stopped in the kitchen for a swallow of Finna's brandy. 

"Hello again, Merlin," Arthur amends, and Merlin tells himself he's imagining the faint lilt, the amused quirk of the synth's lips. They are wide, full – _sensuous_ is the word that springs to mind before Merlin strangles that line of thought. "Your door was unlocked. I thought it would be safer to wait for you inside. Is this acceptable?"

Merlin frees his collar at last and deposits it on the sideboard, then sinks into the nearest chair with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Yes, yes, of course," he says, though he's fairly certain that synths, like the vampires of legend, can't enter a residence without the express invitation of the owner. "But why are you, erm…" Merlin gestures again, this time towards Arthur, fighting to keep his gaze steady, cool, paternal. Arthur turns his body to face him fully, and Merlin has to look away, down at the well-worn Turkmen beneath his feet. "Why on earth have you removed your clothes?" 

There's a long pause – too long. Merlin glances up to find Arthur staring over his head, an ugly sneer now marring those beautiful lips. 

"You don’t gussy up a toaster," Arthur snaps, voice turned cold and mocking, with just the faintest trace of the local accent.

Merlin winces. It's an uncanny impression; his mind conjures Aredian Prideaux's hawkish profile against his will – the thin, smirking lips and flinty eyes that seem to crawl inside clothes, under the skin. "No," he chokes out. "Please, Arthur, that's not right."

There's a whirring sound, a faint electronic chirrup. Arthur blinks, lips spreading back into a placid smile. "Apologies, Merlin. I should not have repeated that."

Before Merlin can explain that, no, he meant that Prideaux's treatment of Arthur was wrong, Arthur adds, "My primary user has many friends." He starts forward, closing the distance between them. His gait is almost feline in its economy of movement, seems doubly alien within the homely confines of the parlour.

"That’s…uh, very nice." Merlin feels the sweat break out afresh as Arthur approaches his chair. Suddenly there's nowhere else to look _but_ there, at the sculpted chest and surprisingly tender-looking belly, the subtle, rolling shift of genitalia between well-muscled thighs. The synthetic skin looks so smooth, so…

"I have met nine of them in the past seventeen days and they all assure me – " Arthur takes one final step, into the space between Merlin's legs. It's far too close for comfort and well beyond propriety given Arthur's lack of clothes. Merlin digs his fingers into the upholstery. " – that this is how I am meant to be amongst friends. Would you like to suck my cock now?"

"What?!"

"I am capable of an erection, though if you would prefer I stay soft, I – "

"No! I don't… Arthur, that's _not_ what I meant when I said I could be your friend." Merlin finds that he's lifted his hands, as if to ward Arthur off, which means he's _this_ close to touching him. He quickly snatches them back, into his lap, and shakes his head. "I don't want that from you."

Those strange eyes lock onto Merlin's, his expression calm, pleasant. "And yet you are becoming aroused."

Merlin swallows. His skin feels as if it's on fire. "I can't help that," he whispers, throat tight with remembered shame. 

_"Nah, he won't tell, will he, the big poof? Just lookit'm tenting his shorts. Here, Father, fancy a go? I got 'im all wet for ye."_

Those boys at the river, snuck off behind a deadfall. Boys fresh from the nick sent to live in the children's homes, boys in parish programs and at village fêtes; everywhere he's ever been there've been boys sneaking off to be with other boys – or even married men – leaving him in a supremely awkward position as their carer and confessor. 

For how can he explain to their parents and the bishops that he would never touch them, has no desire for children, when it's precisely their desire for one another – the relentless seeking and finding of ways to be with their own sex, despite all obstacles – that unsettles and enflames him? That when he catches them at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, all swagger and urgency, reckless in their new men's bodies, doing things he's only dreamt of, he cannot help his own body's response. Shallow breath and prickling sweat, sharp, twisting tug down low, like being pinched from the inside, flood of spit at the back of his throat and cock filling with hot blood, every cell in his body screaming _yes THAT why not why can't we…?_

Then the profound despair at knowing he'll never be touched like that – that his commitment to God allows for no such selfish, animal love, even if anyone were to want him that way – followed by the profound shame at being so weak as to crave it, still.

"I don't want that," Merlin repeats, louder, glaring up into those bold green eyes. 

"I understand." Arthur's expression doesn't change though, and Merlin can't help but be angered by it. Given the context it comes off as almost smug, except that's not something a synth should be able to feel either. "You would prefer me to suck your cock, wouldn't you, Merlin?"

Anger turns to terror as Arthur drops smoothly to his knees, hands hovering just above Merlin's thighs. 

"No, no!" Merlin mutters, releasing the chair to push at Arthur's hands, to scrabble at his face. There's a moment when their eyes meet and Merlin feels as if he's drowning, the sharp angles of Arthur's jaw cradled in his hands almost familiar somehow, as are the blown-wide eyes, seeing too much yet half in another world. "Sorry," he gasps. "I'm so sorry, but I – "

His fingers find the power switch beneath Arthur's chin, stutter across it before he manages the right amount of pressure. 

"Merl– "

There's a small, dull chime. Arthur's still staring at him open-mouthed as the light goes out of his eyes and his lids slide down, the full weight of his head dropping into Merlin's hands.

"Oh _God_ ," Merlin whispers, not honestly knowing in the moment whether it's a plea or a curse.

| o | o | o |

Somehow, Merlin finds the strength to haul Arthur up and wrestle his deadweight into the armchair. Hands shaking, he covers him with an afghan, tucking one end up round his neck and shoulders.

He paces the parlour, but the sight of Arthur's face, not gone slack as humans' do in sleep, but perfectly serene – like a saint at prayer or a fairy-tale prince, waiting for the kiss of magic – unnerves him, so he takes his pacing to the kitchen, downs a brandy while he removes his dinner from the warming oven. He knows he's no good on an empty stomach. 

For all his earlier anticipation, however, he can't appreciate a single bite. He's acutely aware of Arthur's inert presence in the house, of the minutes piling up and passing; through the windows he can see the afternoon shadows stretching along the garden path. He picks at his meal absently, eventually abandoning it on the worktop. He knows the festival runs into the evening, until ten o'clock, but he's no idea how long Prideaux's planning on staying. He could be home already, wondering at Arthur's absence. He might be tracking Arthur remotely, or even, if he's discovered the theft of the bitcoin voucher, rung the Special Technologies Task Force. 

It's what Merlin should have done as soon as he left the church – whether it's a case of malfunction or illegal modification, it's clear Arthur's no ordinary synth – but now, as then, he can't bear the idea of something so extraordinary being destroyed or recycled for parts. Equally upsetting is the possibility he might simply be wiped and re-imaged, then given back to Prideaux. Used once more as a sex slave, a beautiful young man who can’t say no, who can be pimped out to sweeten a deal or repay a favour.

"No, _no_!" Merlin mutters, bashing a fist on the kitchen table. "There's got to be another option. _Think._ " He sinks into a chair, closing his eyes and burying his face in his hands. 

He's not naïve. He knows about the smash clubs and dolly bars, knew men in the seminary who preached that synths were only mankind's latest rush towards the Fall. Technically there is nothing illegal about what Prideaux's been doing, but Merlin can't help but feel that there _should_ be – that, in fact, people should have a heightened responsibility of care towards machines created specifically in their own image. That they should be treated more like pets than appliances, or even regarded as dependents, as…

Merlin opens his eyes. "Children. That 'Daughters Not Dollies' case…where did I – " He nearly topples the chair in his haste to rise, rushes into his study. He's halfway through wrecking Finna's neat stacks of opened post when he finally remembers where he'd seen the story. 

He drops the papers and hurries back through to the parlour, past Arthur's motionless form. He drops to his knees beside the hearth, rummaging through the thick, curling stack of church bulletins and newspapers that Finna saves for tinder in the old coal scuttle. "I've an idea," he murmurs, though he knows Arthur cannot hear him. "There was a woman a few years back, got a synths' rights case heard in the High Court. Lost, but the fact that she even… _aha!_ " Spotting the relevant headline, Merlin plucks the section free, shakes off the dust. "Maybe she can help us, put me in touch with – "

"Now there's a sight for sore eyes."

Merlin starts, whipping his head round as the room fills with a rich chuckle. "Wha– ?"

"Practising your knee-walking, are you, Merlin? Took you long enough."

"H-how did you…but you were switched off!"

Arthur tilts his head, grinning as he tugs the afghan down to his waist. "Not completely. The autonomous sleep-wake capabilities hidden in my deep code – as you predicted, the Corporation technicians never found them."

"As _I_ predicted? How could I…" Merlin trails off, heart hammering in his chest. He's just noticed that something's different about Arthur's eyes. They are no longer green, but a clear, brilliant _blue._

Arthur snorts, straightening his head. He's still smiling though. It's there in the faint lift of his eyebrows, the quivering shape of his mouth. Subtle signs, _human_ signs. Merlin can only stare, wondering if he's going mad. 

"Because, Merlin," Arthur says, leaning forward, "you're the one who put them there."

| o | o | o |

"You think I'm head-cracked, don't you?"

Merlin sets his cup down and leans back against the cupboards, studying the scene before him. They've relocated to the kitchen, Arthur citing a need to charge and Merlin in desperate need of more brandy. He's been sipping it steadily, feeling it's numbing warmth settle in his belly while watching Arthur extract some sort of cable from his oral cavity and rig himself up to Finna's MP3 dock. He sends up a silent prayer of thanks that at least Arthur is dressed once more, and has made no mention of his earlier sexual advances. 

"To be honest, I'm not sure _what_ you are."

Arthur flashes him a tight smile. "It would be easier to show you, but…"

"What?"

"I'm not sure you'll thank me for it." Arthur's gaze drops, tracking slowly down Merlin's body, ruining his newfound composure, making his skin prickle with heat. "You really don’t remember?"

Merlin shakes his head, and is again taken aback by the subtlety of Arthur's reaction. There's deep sorrow there, as well as frustration, but he's trying to appear calm, confident. "Look, Arthur, whatever – whomever – you are, I'd like to help you, but if Prideaux – "

"I've disabled the dolly boy's tracker, if that's what you're worried about, but we do need to do this before his persona reboots. I should have enough of a charge in about ten minutes."

"Excuse me, I…enough charge for what, exactly?"

Arthur pats the cable snaking out from under his top, eyes locked on Merlin's. "Direct memory interface. We'll need a sharp knife and some boiling water – antiseptic wipes, if you've got them. And bandages, for after."

Merlin's confusion and alarm must show on his face, for Arthur holds his hands up, continuing to speak in the easy, authoritative tone he's had since he switched himself back on. "I know this sounds insane, but you must trust me, Merlin. The scar near your groin – "

"How do you know about that?!" Merlin's always been modest, but had taken special care around the other young men while in seminary, and whenever he's worked with children. No "skins" on the pitch or fitted swim trunks; no joining in on group showers. He doubts anyone save his doctors have seen him naked since the accident. As for before… _Damn._

"I was there," Arthur says simply. "I watched you do it."

Merlin snatches up the cup, drains what's left of the brandy. "And when was that? Who do you really belong to?" Try as he might, the years before seminary are a washed-out blur. He's re-learnt the facts that are on all his official papers – abandoned on the steps of a local church in Somerset, series of children's homes and parish schools, solid marks but nothing exceptional – but has no clear memories of anything that happened before being fished out of the Kennet and Avon canal. "And why," he adds, before he can censor himself, "are your eyes suddenly so…so _blue_?"

Arthur lowers his hands to his lap, cocks his head. Unless Merlin's imagining it, he's trying to suppress a smile. "It would be much easier to show you that, as well. Will you let me?"

| o | o | o |

Merlin knows that curiosity has killed many things other than cats, and is not always overtly encouraged within the Catholic faith. And yet he's found that it is exactly this trait – the very stubbornness of it, the entrenched human craving to be in on the mystery, whatever it may be – that leads people to the Church. It's what's kept countless country parishes going over the years, putting new roofs on rectories, re-upholstering kneelers, and commissioning windows. To this day it keeps Merlin well fed, the pews moderately full, and the churchyard free of weeds.

However. Sitting so close beside Arthur, stripped down to his shirtsleeves with only a bath towel to protect his modesty, Merlin reminds himself that curiosity is not the same thing as faith. Nor is it an excuse for monumental stupidity.

The sting of the initial cut is fading, replaced by a dull ache and a mounting horror at the sight of the synth's fingers _inside_ him, probing beneath a small, bloody flap of skin at the juncture of his hip and thigh.

He hisses as Arthur hits something that causes a fresh stab of pain. "Stop, please, I – "

Arthur makes a shushing sound. Without looking up, he moves his other hand to Merlin's chest, applying a gentle pressure. "You must hold absolutely still, Merlin. I almost have it."

Merlin grits his teeth, imagining trying to explain to St. Peter that he willingly let a rogue synth cut a hole in him, that he bled out on a stiff twin mattress in one of the rectory's spare rooms because he was vain enough to believe a machine might have truly achieved consciousness and sought him out for spiritual guidance…because he was weak enough to be fooled by a beautiful face, tragic tale and curious pair of eyes.

"There, got it," Arthur says, glancing up. He looks hopeful, excited – his eyes very bright and near. Startled, Merlin makes the mistake of looking down. He catches a glimpse of Arthur's bloody fingers and – worse – the dark, metallic glint of the thing that's now protruding from his wound. Groaning, he closes his eyes and turns his head away, pressing his face against the wall. 

"Hold on," Arthur says. "This may pinch a bit. I just need to – "

There's a tugging sensation, a sharp twinge, then a wet-sounding _snick._ Then the pain explodes, multiplies exponentially, burning white-hot and relentless…except it's no longer in Merlin's groin, but his mind.

Merlin screams – he hears himself screaming – and for a long moment knows only that he cannot survive this. That his mind will shatter, his soul be lost, because _no one_ can cope with this much pain. 

He's saved by the feel of a hand enfolding and practically crushing his own, then by a voice at his ear, the sudden press of cool skin – forehead, nose and lips – along his burning face as soothing as the words themselves.

"Easy, now. I've got you, Merlin," the voice says. It's not God's voice – it's nothing like God's voice – but in the moment Merlin thinks that it might as well be, that if he could only hear one voice for the rest of his life, this is the one he'd choose. "Just…breathe. And slow down, all right? It's data, not ale."

Merlin barely has time to wonder at the meaning of the words when the shocking pain subsides, leaving him with a flood of images…lifetimes of memories. Lifetimes of searching and finding, of having then losing, of fighting only to fail in the end. Centuries of loneliness, madness, war, irrelevance…and then a new hope: technologies that can mimic life.

It's too much at first. He can only gasp and writhe like a fish out of water, head throbbing. But the hand in his remains firm, and there's something about it that saves him from the morass, a puzzling difference that tugs his mind back to this narrow room with its whitewashed walls, quilted coverlet and flyspecked portrait of Saint Madrun. 

"Nnnngh…agh, _what_ …" Merlin grits out, weakly lifting their joined hands, shaking them. "What happened to your callouses, dollophead? The Arthur I knew…hands tough as an old boot."

"That joke has never been funny, Merlin."

"And yet – " Merlin struggles to sit fully upright, wincing as the movement pulls the connecting cable taut against the edge of his open wound. " – you're smiling."

"This is my unimpressed, mocking smile." 

"You sure about that?"

"Oh, yes." Arthur lifts Merlin's arm and drapes it around his neck so he can press closer, freeing up some slack in the cable. "You were very thorough with regard to my facial expressions. The amount of code involved in smiles alone works out to eleven hundred and sixty-nine standard printed pages."

"Hmpf." Merlin closes his eyes, leaning into Arthur, letting the steady stream of data spark images in his brain. He's bone-tired. He knows that the memory upload and re-integration will be quicker, easier if his organic body is asleep, but he can’t resist watching for a little while. Especially the early days, all their firsts, plus the few precious lifetimes where Arthur wasn't needed as a warrior. 

" 'S because it's important," he says, trying to explain before he nods off. "And you never get to do enough of it." 

He hears Arthur's quiet huff, then, "You must rest now, Merlin. As soon as the upload is complete I will let the others know where we are." 

_What others?_ Merlin wonders as he succumbs, at last, to his exhaustion.

| o | o | o |


	4. Interlude: Primary User

_**Interlude: Primary Use** r_

Arthur spends his first week as a Prideaux on the estate, learning its layout and daily routines, as commanded, by shadowing the human staff and local tenants. It's clear they resent his presence, and it doesn't take long to discover why. Aredian uses him as a raised stick, a constant threat to their livelihoods.

"…or I'll replace the lot of you with one of _those_!" is a common utterance. Arthur even overhears Aredian say as much to his wife and eldest son once, followed by, "At least it does as it's _told_ and doesn't go flitting round town inviting gossip. And in two years, when I've grown sick of its face, I can trade it in for a new one."

It makes Arthur angry, but he knows synths aren't supposed to get angry. Instead, he starts finding ways to help them on the sly – just little things at first, nothing his Corporation persona might be required to report to Aredian.

At night, when the persona is in sleep-charge mode, Arthur unzips the dream files – the encrypted ones hidden in his system – and begins to study them, trying to make sense of the anger, as well all his other illicit emotions. He searches for the faces that bring on the strongest reactions. There are many, but there is only one face that is a near-constant through every scene, linked to every emotion save hatred. It's the man with eyes like the sea, the one Arthur is supposed to find. He, Arthur remembers – _knows_ in his deepest levels of code – is Arthur's true primary user.

One day Arthur is finally allowed off the estate, ordered to drive Aredian up the coast to an appointment in a nearby village. He's left with the car in a shaded lane just off the main road and told to wait with the doors locked. He'd been hoping for a chance to explore, but can't be discovered disobeying direct orders, so contents himself with rolling the window down a few centimetres and listening to the sounds from the street – pedestrians greeting one another or chatting on their mobiles, tinny pop music and the clink of glassware from a nearby pub. He has a partial view of its terrace, as well as the adjacent chemist's and the solid, whitewashed flank of the estate agent's Aredian's gone into. He notes a couple of people eyeing up the car, but is otherwise ignored.

The minutes pass. A lorry rockets by, blaring its horn at a gaggle of young women on the corner and forcing a cyclist to veer off onto the pavement, nearly into their midst. He breaks hard, teetering and spilling the contents of his basket before managing to hop off his falling bicycle.

There is a great deal of shrieking and rude language – mostly directed at the lorry driver – then a cacophony of worried voices. The man holds up his hands, says something that makes them all laugh. As Arthur watches they help right his bicycle and pack his shopping back into the basket.

Suddenly a woman bursts forth from the chemist's and bustles across the street, calling, "Father? Oh, Father is that you? You're all right then? Goodness, I was worried you – "

The man turns to greet her, a broad smile on his face, and Arthur jerks in his seat. It's _him._ Bearded now, and wearing a clerical collar, but there is no mistaking those eyes, nor that smile.

"We should offer medical assistance," Arthur says, reaching for the door locks. "Make sure all the humans are unharmed." But the Corporation persona resists, keeping Arthur strapped in his seat. He's about to force a complete system override when there's a sharp rap on the passenger window – Aredian with a squat, jowly man in tow.

"Hey there, dolly boy. Look lively. I've a friend here who'd like a look at you."

The ensuing encounter is sufficiently bizarre – being stared at, patted and pinched, then ordered to drive out along a remote coastal track with Aredian's friend in the front passenger seat, hand on Arthur's leg – that it's not until later, after supper, that it feels safe to ask what he wants to know.

He waits until they are alone in the library, Aredian accepting his evening glass of port without acknowledging Arthur's presence.

"Excuse me, sir, but that man today, in Tintagel – "

"What the devil do you think you're… I ordered you not to speak of him!"

"Not him, sir," Arthur replies, careful to keep his voice pleasant, his expression neutral. "The man with the bicycle, who was nearly in an accident. 'Father,' they called him. Do you know him?"

Aredian cocks his head, one eyebrow arched high. "Father Emrys?" He laughs, but it is nothing like his wife's laugh, nor those of the women on the street. It's rasping, cruel. He downs the rest of his port and flings the glass at Arthur to catch. "What would I want with that faggot priest?"

| o | o | o |


	5. Light from Darkness

_**Light from Darkness** _

Merlin wakes in the same narrow room with its whitewashed walls, quilted coverlet, and flyspecked portrait of Saint Madrun. Except now he's lying _in_ the bed rather than sitting atop it, the coverlet's been pulled up to his armpits, and when he looks at the portrait he remembers that old Geoffrey had a bit of a thing for Madrun once, back when she was just a princess. It was well before Merlin's time, of course, but he'd overheard Gaius and Geoffrey often enough, reminiscing about their lost loves over beakers of mulled wine.

_Reminiscing…_ Merlin knuckles the crust from his eyes and sits up, ignoring the small twinge at his groin. He's got sharper worries, bigger aches. The thought of anyone indulging their memories for the sheer pleasure of it seems absurd to him now, nigh incomprehensible. 

"Arthur?" Merlin's voice comes out hoarse, uneven. He sees a glass of water on the bedside table and realises he's terribly thirsty. He gulps it down, then calls out again, both with his voice and his implanted synth tech. He barely has time to panic over the results of the ping test – Arthur's blocking him – before the door opens and a woman walks in bearing a tray.

"Awake at last, are we, Father?" Her tone is light, but her gaze is keen, searching his face as she sets the tray on the table and fetches up the empty glass. "I thought you might be hungry, seeing as you hardly touched your dinner."

Merlin clutches her arm, demanding, "Where is he?" She starts, frowning, but doesn’t pull away. _Finna,_ he recalls. Her name is Finna. His cook and housekeeper, of late, but before that she was…there, somehow. Somewhere – some _one_ – else. He can't quite put his finger on it.

"Finna, please," he says, his unease growing. "There was a synth, he… Fair hair, light skin, blue scrubs – tell me he's still here?" 

She meets his eyes, arches one fine brow. "Prideaux's dolly, you mean?" 

"No! Arthur's – " _Mine,_ Merlin wants to say, but he still can't remember exactly where Finna fits into things, so he opts for caution. He exhales his frustration, then releases her arm with a shake of his head. "Arthur is no one's dolly. He's one of a kind."

To his surprise, Finna's expression melts into one of fondness. She reaches for his hand, vigorously pumping it up and down.

"Beg your pardon, Doctor. He _did_ say…but I had to be sure, you understand? Oh, it is lovely to have you back! I'll just fetch him now, shall I? He's been having a bit of a conflict with the Corporation persona, but I think they've come to an arrangement." As she exits, she looks back over her shoulder, lifting her chin towards the tray. "And, genius or no, you still need to eat."

| o | o | o |

The soup smells good, a rich, herby concoction of game hen and vegetables, but Merlin's too jumpy to eat. Finna's calling him "Doctor" confirms that she knows him from before he was a priest. More significantly, she seems to know a great deal about Arthur, but he still can't quite place her.

He closes his eyes, allowing himself to fully access the digitally-stored memories and cross-referencing them with the organic. However, no matter what search algorithms he tries, he turns up the same, glaring blank spots. 

"Hello, Merlin. You are not eating your soup."

Merlin gasps, opening his eyes. "And you didn't complete the transfer! I'm missing…" He trails off as he notes that Arthur's eyes are green. Bloody _green,_ not blue, smile as wide and gormless as they come. 

He swallows hard, clutching the quilt to his chest. "Synthetic unit, please state your name and identify your primary user."

"My name is Arthur," Arthur says, extending his right hand as he approaches the bed.

He makes no mention of Prideaux, though, so Merlin releases the quilt and tentatively extends his right arm. Arthur stares at it with a blank expression. 

"My name…is Arthur," he repeats, the fingers of his outstretched hand twitching. "My primary user is…"

For a long, agonising moment Merlin waits, calculating how near-death his magic will allow him to get before pulling him back, how much oblivion he'll be allowed before being spat out into the world once more, this time irrevocably alone. He's not sure he has the will to start over.

Then Arthur is moving, surprising him by sitting on the bed. Ignoring Merlin's hand, he bends down, grasping Merlin's face instead and bringing their foreheads together.

"You," he says, blinking, and up this close Merlin can see that while his eyes are green there's a depth to their colour, a subtle, ever-shifting play of brilliance and hue instead of a steady Corporation glow. "Merlin, it's always been you. No matter what he's made me do."

"He…" Merlin curls his hands around Arthur's wrists, the flood of relief checked by a sudden, blinding rage. The things Arthur had confessed in the church, his behaviour in the parlour – there is a part of him that still feels the priest's discomfort and moral outrage, but his soul is darker, dense with grief and petty jealousies. "I will _destroy_ – "

"Hush," Arthur cuts in, sliding a thumb across Merlin's lips. "I'm in control, but the Corporation's programming is still in here. Any direct threats to the dolly boy's primary user must be reported."

Merlin clings to Arthur's wrists, taking deep breaths through his nose. He can't bear to look away, but the colour of Arthur's eyes only fuels his anger. It's the firm weight of the thumb against his lips that finally does it, distracts him – calms him – enough to remember what's at stake.

He lets go, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender and nodding to show he understands. Arthur immediately lessens the pressure on Merlin's mouth, but doesn't remove his thumb. Instead, he fixes his gaze on it. He touches Merlin's lips – once, twice – as if testing a cake, then sweeps across them with the pad of his thumb.

Merlin's suddenly, glaringly aware of being only half-dressed beneath the coverlet. He can't quite decipher Arthur's expression, can't quite breathe for the heady rush of sensation produced by his touch. He doesn't know if this is truly _Arthur_ or some dolly boy glitch. 

"Arthur, what – "

"Soup," Arthur cuts in, abruptly pulling away. He stands up, reaching for the tray. "Finna says you must eat to fully recharge, then if you wish we can complete the transfer wirelessly, at a more comfortable bit rate."

Merlin puts out an arm, blocking him. "No. We need to get you sorted first. The parish computer should…or Finna's got a laptop, hasn't she?" He's not sure how he knows this; the fact's just there in his mind, glinting up at him like a coin in a fountain. "But first…would you mind bringing the rest of my clothes?"

"Of course not, Merlin." Arthur takes hold of Merlin's arm instead, gently – but firmly – replacing it at his side, then lifting the tray. "And what of your collar?" 

The question takes Merlin by surprise, only registers as a joke when he notes Arthur's sly smile. "Well at least I know your sense of humour's unchanged," he mutters, rubbing his throbbing temples. "Remind me why, exactly, I was posing as a Catholic priest?"

He's not sure what answer he's expecting, but it certainly isn’t the swift change of Arthur's expression. There's a flash of some strong emotion before his face goes frustratingly blank. He settles the tray on Merlin's lap.

"Arthur?"

"Eat," Arthur says, lifting the spoon from the tray. He turns it, pressing it into Merlin's hand grip-first, as if it's a weapon. "Please, for me."

| o | o | o |

Purging Arthur's Corporation persona is not a difficult hack – more difficult than Merlin had anticipated, perhaps, but only because Arthur insists on retaining _all_ the data the dolly boy's amassed, which means migrating it to Arthur's long-term memory without triggering any of the Corporation's security features before he runs the kill codes.

"Are you sure?" Merlin asks, eyes lowered, fingers poised over the keyboard. "Isn't there anything you'd like...deleted?" 

In the ensuing silence, Merlin glances up. Arthur is staring down at his palms.

"No," he says at last. He lifts his eyes, staring at the opposite wall, then turns his head towards Merlin. "I was there, too, even when I wasn't in control. It's all part of who I am now. To delete any of it would be…I would be…less, somehow. Do you understand?"

Merlin shakes his head, thinking he's the last person on the planet who _could_ – seeking respite from memories has occupied many of his lifetimes, after all; he often longs to be less, to not know who or what he is – but resumes typing without further comment.

"No callouses," Arthur says, startling Merlin from his coding. Their eyes meet. Arthur holds his hands out, palms up. "As you are so fond of saying, I do not have his callouses. I will never have callouses. No bruises, no scars. I can labour on the estate day after day or be used by any number of men without it altering my form. But I can remember."

Merlin winces, but doesn’t look away.

"The things I have witnessed, the things I have felt – Merlin, you built me to learn from them, and I want to. It's the only way I can change, the only way I experience…life."

There is nothing more to be said after that. Telling himself the ache is in his mind, not his heart, Merlin throws himself into the task at hand. 

He completes the migration just before midnight, then begins the purge; by half-past there's no longer any trace of green in Arthur's eyes. When the last of his queries for Corporation-patented code markers comes back null, Merlin declares the job done. He closes the laptop – more roughly than he'd intended – and stands, knuckling at his dry, tired eyes.

"It's done then?" Finna says, slipping into the room with a fresh cup of tea, which she passes to Merlin. At his nod, she unleashes a broad smile. "Thank goodness. Unnerving, that was, him acting all meek and…mass-produced." She pulls a face, as if the very word leaves a bad taste. 

Arthur looks up from disengaging the laptop's cable from his port, all wide eyes and bland smile. "Apologies, human. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

Finna starts, then chuckles, swatting at Arthur with a tea towel. "Yes, like that, you horrible tease." She turns to Merlin. "He was in the kitchen when I got back, _tidying_ would you believe it? Glitchy something fierce, arguing with himself, but still trying to wash up and rearrange the pantry. Broke half the crockery."

The mental image this produces – even after all this time, long past when it should be funny – melts the aches behind Merlin's eyes, coaxes a low, rumbling sound from his throat. And though it sounds, to his own ears, more like a sick cat than a laugh, it feels good. Almost like real joy, especially with the way Arthur's now looking at him.

_"That's better."_ Merlin hears the words in his mind, but doesn’t know whether it's a memory or Arthur direct messaging him through his implanted tech. There was a time when this bothered him – he remembers exactly how much – but at the moment he finds he doesn't care. Callouses or no, this is _his_ Arthur, his expression smug yet fond, proud, but with ever-shifting undercurrents of sheepishness, merriment, and concern.

Feeling overwhelmed, he douses his smile in a gulp of tea. "He has a bit of a history with that. I'm afraid."

Arthur blinks, frowns, then turns earnest eyes on Finna. "It was easier to take control when he was busy," he explains, "or conflicted about his duty. I am sorry about the dishes."

She shrugs. "Don't be. Hideous pattern, totally unsuitable for a Cornish rectory. Now then…" She looks between them. "There's been nothing on the scanners yet about a search, but that doesn't mean no one's looking. I think it'd be best if Arthur spends the night in the church."

"No," Merlin says, instinctually rebelling against being separated. "No, I…" But he has no better idea – nor, come to think of it, the faintest clue what they're all doing here, how they're meant to escape. He sets his cup down. "First I need the rest of my memories back."

"All of them, Doctor?" Arthur says.

"Well…yes," Merlin replies, wondering at the dangerous edge to Arthur's voice, the sudden tension that seems to be radiating throughout his frame. He follows Arthur's gaze and realises that the question is being addressed, not to him, but to Finna who's studying the pair of them with shrewd eyes. "What's going on?"

"Yes, love," she says, giving a sharp nod. "All of them."

Arthur stands, extending his hand towards Merlin. "Please state the access code to unlock weeks seven through ten."

"I'm sorry, I don't kn– "

"I do," Finna cuts in, "but you need to make primary contact." Once Merlin has grasped Arthur's hand she places her own atop theirs, closes her eyes, and begins chanting in a language Merlin hasn't heard spoken for thousands of years. 

" _Draeca! Astyré! Getheo! Scildan!_ "

Merlin feels her hand lift when she's through; he hears her excuse herself, murmuring something about the kitchen, but he can't look away. He wonders how many times he's been here, just like this, caught in the light of Arthur's eyes. He watches the slow blink, the sudden chest heave and parting of lips, as if Arthur actually needs air.

"Ready?" Arthur says. 

Merlin's not sure that he is, but he nods just the same, opening himself to the incoming data stream.

| o | o | o |


End file.
